


Hatchings

by Mawgrim



Series: Fort Weyr - Eighth Pass [1]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Impression (Dragonriders of Pern), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26253442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mawgrim/pseuds/Mawgrim
Summary: Towards the end of the Eighth Pass, two Weyrbred boys wait to see if they will be successful in Impressing a dragon.
Series: Fort Weyr - Eighth Pass [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907281
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	1. Loranth's Hatching

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to _Gone Away, Gone Ahead_ and tells the story of many of the Fort Weyr riders who end up going forward to the Ninth Pass with Lessa.  
> There are no spoilers for _Gone Away, Gone Ahead_ just some more detail about the characters and situations already mentioned in that work.

Fifteen was the minimum age to stand on the Hatching Sands at Fort Weyr. It wasn’t written in stone, of course. If there were more eggs in a clutch than candidates who had reached the correct age or a hatchling went for someone younger in the audience, no one would hold them back. However, during a Pass, older boys were generally preferred. No one was allowed to join a Wing until their sixteenth birthday. Anyone who Impressed too early would be forced to wait until they reached that age, which would frustrate both dragon and rider, not to mention wasting Weyr resources. There were all sorts of reasons for this ruling, but in the end it came down to the simple fact that no Wingleader - or the Weyrleader - wanted to see young men and dragons die before they had a chance to fully mature.

Detgar had grown up at the Weyr. He’d been to more Hatchings than he cared to count and had always expected that one day he’d take his turn to put on the traditional white robe and tread gingerly across the hot sands, waiting for his dragon to break its shell. He knew that not everyone Impressed the first time out and that there was no shame in being left standing. It just meant your dragon hadn’t yet hatched. Some of the older boys had stood three or four times before being successful. With at least two Hatchings a Turn (more if you counted the occasions when other Weyrs sent requests for extra candidates) most tended to Impress before the age of seventeen.

‘Think we’ll be lucky?’ Serebrin skimmed another stone across the smooth, unruffled surface of the Weyr lake.

‘We’re always lucky.’ He was the older by a few months, but they’d both be standing first time for Loranth’s latest clutch; twenty-seven eggs which were hardening inside the Hatching Ground even now, the massive bulk of Fort’s senior queen dragon curled protectively around them.

‘The latest betting has you getting a green and me a blue.’

‘We might both get greens.’ Detgar didn’t particularly care what colour dragon decided to choose him. He got on well with most of the green riders; they had the wildest parties and the best sense of humour in the Weyr. He’d not mind joining their number.

‘I wouldn’t like that.’ Serebrin turned to him, a smile curling his lips. ‘I don’t want to have to share you with anyone else.’

Detgar felt himself blushing and cursed his pale complexion which allowed it to show. ’Mating flights don’t count. Everyone knows that.’

Serebrin put an arm around him and pulled him close. ‘And they won’t have to. My dragon will always catch yours.’

Detgar thought he should point out it didn’t always work that way. There were too many variables in a mating flight. But strong relationships weathered that. ‘It doesn’t matter who he’s having sex with right now; it’s me he loves,’ he’d once heard a blue rider saying when his weyrmate’s dragon rose to mate while his own was recovering from a bad Threadscore. ‘Let’s hope so,’ he said. ‘But nothing’s certain.’

For five heated weeks the eggs lay on the Hatching Sands, at the tail end of a dusty summer when late afternoon light turned the Weyr Bowl amber and gold. They’d sneaked in through a seldom used service tunnel to peek at the eggs. Everyone did it; it was a rite of passage among the weyrbrats. You’d ‘borrow’ one of the depleted glow baskets and hope its feeble light didn’t give out as you made your way through the darkness of the Weyr. The first time he’d gone along he’d only been twelve Turns. This time it had felt different; this time, one of those eggs might contain his dragon. ‘Twenty-seven chances,’ he’d whispered to Serebrin, hoping fervently Loranth didn’t hear his voice. She was a very protective mother and was well known for her habit of terrifying the prospective candidates on Hatching Day.

There were thirty-eight candidates for this clutch; Mardra always liked to make sure Loranth’s hatchlings had plenty of choice. Eleven of them would inevitably be disappointed. Detgar had attended enough Hatching feasts to recall the glum faces among those who hadn’t been picked. He worried; he couldn’t help it. What if he Impressed and Serebrin didn’t? Or vice versa. Even if they Impressed next time, they’d still be in different weyrling classes. And if the gamblers predictions turned out right and he got a green, she’d be ready to rise in a Turn or so, maybe before Serebrin’s blue was old enough to want to mate.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Serebrin turned to him.

‘Oh, nothing really.’ He was afraid that if he spoke his worries, they might come to fruition. ‘Thinking about when we both have dragons.’

‘We’ll have to be good boys for a while, you know. Not… do anything.’

That was true enough. Once you’d Impressed any kind of sexual contact with another person was forbidden until the dragons were mature enough not to be confused or upset by it. ‘Better make sure we don’t miss out on any opportunities before that happens, then.’

‘I don’t know how I’m going to be able to keep my hands off you for so long.'

‘We’ll be knackered just looking after our dragons.’ Detgar knew exactly how much work it took feeding, bathing and oiling the fast-growing hatchlings. Plus there were all the usual Weyr duties to be performed and the interruption of Threadfall every couple of days. ‘But once we get in a Wing, we’ll be able to have a weyr of our own.’ He allowed himself a brief daydream of their dragons; blue and green, of course, twining necks on the ledge. ‘It’ll be perfect.’

They both knew the risks of course. Becoming a dragonrider meant fighting Thread and while there was a certain romance in the thought of sitting astride a flaming dragon and searing the deadly spores from the sky as they fell, growing up in the Weyr meant that they were all too familiar with the awful injuries - and deaths - that went with the territory. It was well known that the first couple of Turns as a wing rider were the most dangerous; if you managed to survive those, then you stood a good chance of living a while longer. However, this Pass was coming to its end. Five or six more Turns and Threadfall would be over, at least for another two hundred odd Turns. They’d be able to enjoy the rest of their lives, with nothing more perilous to cope with than routine patrols and the Spring Games.

The next few sevendays were full of anticipation and preparation. Each afternoon they attended the compulsory classes. As the Sands grew hotter and the eggs closer to Hatching, they were given the traditional white wool robes they’d wear on the day. White supposedly made it easier for the hatchlings to see them. Newly hatched dragons were clumsy and starving. Many Hatchings resulted in injuries when some poor candidate got trampled or mauled because he wasn’t quick enough to move aside.

Although no one could predict exactly when the eggs would begin to crack, experience meant the weyrfolk could take a fair guess. The Weyr being what it was, bets had already been placed on when the dragons might begin to hum their welcoming chorus. Plus, of course, on the colour of the dragons that would emerge and which candidates stood the best chance of Impressing.

‘Any day now,’ Serebrin croaked. The past few days he’d been plagued by a cough, which most put down to the dust that swirled around the Bowl every time a Wing took off or landed. One of the healers had prescribed a sticky syrup taken together with a soothing herbal tea, but it didn’t seem to be getting any better.

‘You all right?’ Detgar couldn’t help but be concerned. He rubbed Serebrin’s back as he was wracked with another bout of coughing. ‘Shouldn’t you go and see the healer again?’

‘No,’ he managed to gasp. ‘I’ll be fine.’

But he wasn’t. The next morning the coughing was worse and he’d started running a fever. Despite protests, he was taken to the infirmary and put under observation. When Detgar tried to visit following the afternoon class on dragon care, he was told to go away.

‘It may be contagious. We can’t take any chances, with the Hatching so close.’

‘But I’ve been sleeping with him. Surely I’d have caught it by now if I was going to?’ It was so frustrating. Detgar suddenly had a thought. ‘Will he be all right for the Hatching?’

‘We’ll have to see. He’s in no fit state right now but give him a few days…’

Detgar went straight from the infirmary and found the Weyrlingmaster to tell him the news. ‘So if he’s not fit enough, then I don’t want to stand either.’

‘Don’t be daft, lad. We need every candidate. You know what happens if a dragon can’t Impress.’

It was in one of the more sobering Teaching Ballads. If a hatchling couldn’t find anyone acceptable, either on the Sands or among the audience, they would go _between_ in despair. ‘But that’s not happened in living memory,’ he protested in vain.

‘And it’s not going to happen on my watch, either. There’ll be another clutch in a couple of months, so your friend will get his chance then if he’s not well enough this time.’

Arguing was futile. He spent a sleepless night, worrying about what might happen. Worrying about Serebrin too, as he’d been told on his second visit that there was still no improvement. All right then. They could make him take his place on the Sands, but that didn’t mean he had to actively try and attract a dragon. You were supposed to fill your mind with welcoming thoughts when the eggs began to crack. If he thought of nothing at all, maybe the dragons just wouldn’t notice him. And of course, if it looked like one of them was becoming distressed and searching for him then he’d do what he had to. Just hope it didn’t come to that.

It was mid-afternoon when the humming began and everyone started making their way toward the Hatching Ground. Detgar pulled on his white robe and tried not to think of how it must feel for Serebrin, stuck inside the infirmary, hearing it and knowing he couldn’t be there. What if his dragon Hatched today and he was missing? He might never have another chance. His dragon could die without ever finding him. With all of that going around his head, he was feeling anything but cheerful and welcoming as he was dropped onto the Sands to take his place.

The eggs were rocking as Loranth did her usual show of menacing the candidates before finally retreating to watch with interest as the first shell cracked open. A blue dragon’s head swivelled slowly around before he managed to split the remaining shell and step out, heading unerringly toward Veesil, a tall seventeen year old who was having his third try at Impressing.

‘His name is Mirlith!’ The pair started to make their way toward the entrance, outside which freshly butchered meat was waiting in large pails.

Most of the candidates stepped closer, encouraged by the ease of the first Impression. Several eggs were showing signs of breaking. Detgar tried to ignore them, concentrating instead on how hot his bare feet felt on the baking sand and letting the dragons intense humming drive every thought from his head. He tried not to even look toward the eggs, blocked as they were by the white robed backs in front of him. Somewhere in the stands, he knew his mother, Agarra would be watching. He realised he should make it seem as if he was genuinely trying to entice a hatchling and stepped a bit closer, while keeping his mind tightly shuttered. It felt wrong. Desperately wrong.

All around he heard names being announced, cheering and clapping from family as boys Impressed. Four or five eggs cracked open at the same time, and several boys ran in their direction. One brown hatchling stumbled and a green got her wing caught on the jagged edge of a shell. There was a cry of pain as a candidate was roughly thrown aside by a bronze dragon who rushed suddenly forward searching for his rider. He was a beautiful looking dragon, Detgar thought, perfectly proportioned. Less ungainly than most of the other hatchlings…

The bronze turned his head as if he sensed the thoughts and was seeking out their source. Detgar shut his eyes and stilled his mind. When he dared to open them again, Kentorl had his arms around the dragon’s neck and was shouting his name to the audience.

There was another flurry of activity as several more dragons freed themselves. Three boys ran towards them. Two Impressed immediately. The other was pushed aside as a small, moss green dragon hopped awkwardly toward another bunch of lads and gleefully bowled one of them over, making happy, crooning noises. A straggling line of newly hatched dragons and their life mates headed for the exit. Loranth had settled and seemed almost content, her huge golden head resting on the sand.

Not many left now. Detgar risked a glance. The sand was strewn with broken shells. Just a few eggs still moved as the hatchlings used up the last of their energy to break through the tough casing. It had all happened so fast. The remaining candidates stood warily, knowing that most of them would end up disappointed. A blue and a brown dragon hatched almost at the same moment. The brown dragon went straight for Celdan while the blue tentatively looked this way and that. Gabreden moved towards him. For a heart-stopping moment the little dragon ignored him, then Impression was made and he was shouting, ‘Jekkoth. His name’s Jekkoth.’

Another egg split, giving a glimpse of emerald green hide. ‘Aren’t you going to try for her?’ Detgar turned to see Mairbrell looking at him quizzically.

He shrugged. ‘If I’m right for her, she’ll find me.’

‘Don’t you want to Impress?’

‘Sure. But you can’t force yourself on a dragon, can you?’ He watched impassively as the green dragon righted herself then made her way toward three boys standing to her left. One broke into a delighted grin. ‘Her name’s Minth,’ he shouted. ‘Minth!’

The final egg took its time. ‘That’s one lazy dragon,’ Mairbrell said. ‘Sleeping in when all his clutchmates have already hatched.’

‘Might be a she,’ Detgar pointed out.

‘No. He’s…’ As the shell shattered into pieces a ruddy brown dragon looked straight at him. ‘He’s Toth.’ Mairbrell met his dragon halfway.

It was all over. Blue riders came down to clear the debris and to ferry any injured candidates away for treatment, although thankfully this time there were only a few minor scrapes and cuts. Detgar walked carefully towards the entrance, not daring to look up into the audience in case he spotted Agarra. She was probably more disappointed than he was. His father had been a rider; which one she wasn’t sure as she’d found herself pregnant after a gold flight during which she’d had more than one partner. Not that it mattered in the Weyr.

Outside, the newly hatched dragons were being fed by their proud new riders. Detgar ignored them all, went back to his bunk and changed into his ordinary clothes. The feast would be starting soon, but he wasn’t hungry. He sat for a while, thinking about what might have been, then realised there was no point in it. He’d done what he set out to do and in a few months, Serebrin and he would stand together on the Sands, as it was meant to be.


	2. Second Time Around

They’d started running again, even though Serebrin still found himself short of breath after recovering from the fever. ‘Have to get back in shape,’ he panted as they started on their third circuit of the lake.

‘Dragons don’t care,’ Detgar said. He didn’t mind running, especially when it was with Serebrin but given the choice, he’d rather lie in bed a while longer. Particularly with Serebrin.

‘I care. And we’ll be the fittest pair of weyrlings they’ve had.’

He’d lost some weight during his illness. Not that he’d ever be as skinny as Detgar. Serebrin was tall, but not lanky like a lot of teenage boys became when they shot up in height. He was blessed with a muscular physique which had been further enhanced through his work with the Weyr maintenance crew and the punishing exercise routines he voluntarily put himself through.

‘Shall we take a rest?’ Detgar suggested. He didn’t want Serebrin to overdo it.

‘No. Not till we’ve done this circuit.’

Some of the weyrlings were already up and about, butchering carcasses to feed their fast-growing dragons. Detgar found his eyes drawn to the deep bronze hide of K’torl’s Ganath. He was still the best looking of the whole clutch and seemed to have bypassed the gawky stage many young dragons went through. ‘Kadoth’s looking very bright lately. I’ve heard it said she’s probably going to rise soon.’

Serebrin just nodded. It wasn’t until they stopped and he’d had a chance to catch his breath that he commented. ‘She’s not risen for nearly two turns. And her last clutch…’ He shook his head.

Kadoth had only laid fifteen eggs the last time and two of them hadn’t even hatched. But then, she was nearly forty Turns old and she’d been badly Threadscored just after her previous mating flight, so it wasn’t surprising.

‘She’s had some good clutches in the past,’ Detgar said in her defence. Unlike Mardra, who could be snappy, Valli, Kadoth’s rider, always had a kind word for the weyrbrats.

‘Yes, but think of the bronze rider having to bed poor old Valli. Not much fun for him.’

‘Or her, I expect.’ Mating flights weren’t always enjoyable for the human participants. Detgar had seen the after effects too many times to think there might be any romance in them. Riders often ended up injured. It wasn’t something he looked forward to much. He preferred to know what he was doing when having sex, rather than being in the sort of daze a lot of riders found themselves when their dragons rose to mate.

‘Be all right for us, though.’ Serebrin grinned. ‘Nothing like a good gold flight, is there?’

Gold flights meant everyone had the day off. Well, with all that dragonlust in the air, nothing got done, apart from the obvious. ‘Maybe we can nab a space in one of the bathing pools this time,’ he suggested. The last time a queen dragon rose - Loranth - it had caught them by surprise and they’d ended up in a cramped store cupboard, all the best places having already been taken. Detgar had been bruised for quite a while afterwards.

‘Sounds like a good idea. Or even one of the empty weyrs, if there’s enough warning.’ Serebrin stood up and stretched. ‘Come on. Once more round, then we’ll go and get some breakfast.’

Kadoth rose on the second day of the tenth month. It wasn’t a long flight; the aftermath of the scoring had left her less agile than she’d once been. That would mean a smaller clutch for sure. ‘Bathing pool’s definitely a lot more comfortable than a store cupboard,’ Detgar said afterwards, as they queued for dinner.

T’garrin, one of the younger blue riders, was already taking bets as to how many eggs would be laid. ‘Care to have a gamble?’ he called over. ‘Especially as this is going to matter to you two.’

‘All right. I’ll say… fourteen.’

T’garrin made a note on a piece of well worn hide. ‘You want to try and guess the number of bronzes?’

‘Not until the eggs are on the sand.’ Some people reckoned you could tell the colour of the dragon inside the egg by the patterning on the shell and its size. Detgar had seen enough Hatchings to know it was all guesswork. The only colour you could be absolutely sure of was gold; a golden shell meant there was a young queen dragon inside. He didn’t think it likely Kadoth would lay a golden egg at her age, but you could estimate the number of likely bronzes from the quantity; generally, bronzes made up about five percent of the Weyr’s population.

‘I’m still putting you down for a blue,’ T’garrin said to Serebrin. ‘Not sure about you any more,’ he added to Detgar.

‘What’s changed?’

‘None of the greens so much as sniffed at you. In fact, the only hatchling who seemed a tiny bit interested was Ganath.’

‘Ganath!’ Serebrin sounded surprised. ‘You didn’t tell me about that.’

‘It was only for a second.’ Detgar tried to make it seem as if it hadn’t mattered. In truth, he’d re-lived that awful Hatching many a time, both in dreams and when his mind started spinning with might-have-beens. What if that had been his only chance and he’d deliberately turned it down? ‘Imagine me with a bronze.’ He forced a laugh.

It had obviously set Serebrin thinking, though. Over the next month, while summer’s golden light faded and Kadoth started to fill out as her eggs matured, he mentioned it a few times. ‘I can - sort of - see you with a bronze, you know. You’re clever. You think a lot. You figure things out.’

‘I’m not a leader, though.’

‘Wasn’t your dad a bronze rider?’

‘Agarra’s not sure. Anyway, apart from an increased likelihood of Impressing, there’s no statistical proof that a person will end up with the same colour dragon as their parents. You might as well say I’m bound to be good at cooking because that’s what my mum does. Or that you’ll Impress a gold because your great-gran did.’ That got a laugh out of S’brin. ‘Anyway, they can speculate all they like. It’s down to the dragon in the end.’

Turn’s End came and went. The feasting and dancing always made those dark days more tolerable and the freezing weather gave a welcome respite from Threadfall; intense cold froze the spores into harmless black dust. Just a sevenday into the new Turn, Kadoth flew to the Hatching Ground and laid twelve eggs over a two day period.

‘Twelve’s not many.’ Serebrin grimaced. ‘If they even all hatch.’

‘It’ll be fine.’ Detgar wished he felt as confident as he sounded. ‘Just make sure you don’t catch anything this time. Apart from a dragon, that is.’

As candidates, they had to attend the same lectures they’d done before. Detgar often found his attention wandering as he’d already memorised everything they were supposed to know. Snow fell on the Weyr and the waiting time was broken up by snowball fights. Some of the younger dragons and their riders amused themselves by sliding down the snow covered rockfall at the far end of the Weyr Bowl. Serebrin’s duties with the maintenance crew meant that he was busy fixing broken heating systems while Detgar was glad that his studious nature meant he was working in the warmth of the archives, assisting the Weyrharper.

‘You know, if you don’t Impress, you could always go to the Harper Hall,’ Ballaran suggested. He was always good at sensing when something was worrying Detgar.

‘Me? I can’t play anything. Or even sing very well.’

‘No, but you’re good at teaching. Archiving too. Not all harpers are performers.’

‘I’ve a while to go yet.’ The age limit was set at twenty, although most who were going to Impress did so before then. Still, with the end of the Pass in sight, the gold dragons would be rising less often and the clutch sizes steadily diminishing. He preferred not to think about a future without a dragon. He’d lived in the Weyr all his life. The world outside held no appeal, especially if it meant being apart from Serebrin. Although if Serebrin Impressed and he didn’t they’d drift apart anyway.

‘Still, something to consider, eh? I wouldn’t recommend you if I didn’t think you were suitable.’

‘Thanks.’

As they snuggled together in bed that night, Detgar felt that he had to say something, if only to warn Serebrin that things might not go as they’d planned. ‘If you Impress and I don’t…’

‘Don’t say that. Of course we both will.’

‘I didn’t last time. Maybe I won’t at all.’

‘You worry too much.’ Serebrin pulled him closer, enveloping him in the warmth of his body. ‘Even if I’d been well enough last time, who’s to say I’d have Impressed then? Maybe neither of us will succeed this time either. Still, we’ve got Turns to go.’

There was a thaw before the Hatching. The Bowl turned from a pristine white wonderland to a slushy mess in a matter of days. Thread fell over Southern Boll and it was a bad one, with two fatalities and a several injured men and dragons. The mood of the Weyr was sombre.

‘A good Hatching will cheer everyone up,’ the Weyrlingmaster told them at the end of their afternoon class. ‘Looks like it might happen tomorrow, so everyone be ready.’

Detgar didn’t sleep much, wondering if he’d be lying in the weyrling barracks the following night, a dragon curled up on the couch next to his bed. Or not. Most probably not. In the morning, they joined the other candidates in the dining hall for breakfast, but he couldn’t eat much. He felt sick.

‘Try and eat something,’ Serebrin encouraged him. ‘Or you’ll be as hungry as your dragon by the time the Hatching’s over.’

‘I can’t. Sorry.’

The morning dragged. The candidates were put on clean-up duty, shovelling piles of dirty, wet snow to one side of the landing area; a job they could set aside quickly when necessary. The air was damp and chilly. A few dragons peered out from the ledges, but most stayed in the warmth of their weyrs. ‘It’s too cold for the eggs to hatch,’ someone joked. ‘Those dragons are staying put until the weather warms up.’

The humming started right in the middle of the first sitting for lunch. Riders grumbled at having to leave their food. Detgar was glad. It meant no one could try to force him to eat anything. He and Serebrin put on their white robes, gave each other a hug and waited for their lifts into the Hatching Ground.

The heat of the Sands was welcome. Kadoth sat to one side of her eggs. Unlike Loranth, who tended to stack them close together, she preferred to space them out in a curving line. It was easy to see which had started to rock and which were as yet unmoving.

The terraces slowly filled with dragons and spectators. Detgar caught sight of Agarra waving to him and quickly looked away. His stomach churned and he hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself by throwing up on the Sands. There were twenty-three candidates today. He recognised many of the faces from last time and wondered if they felt as nervous as he did. Maybe they were just better at hiding it.

‘Good luck,’ Serebrin whispered, giving his hand a final squeeze, before going over to join a group to the right-hand side of the stands. They clustered around one of the most active eggs, a large one patterned with blue-grey shapes that looked somewhat like clouds. Detgar wondered if he should follow, then decided to stay in the middle. That way, he could move whichever way he might need to. He tried to banish the worry and replace it with welcoming thoughts but his mind didn’t want to co-operate. Shards! If he carried on like this he’d put off any dragon. He briefly shut his eyes and focussed on memories of happy times. That was better, if he could hold it there.

The rocking of the cloud-coloured egg was becoming more frantic. The boys drew closer, then as a crack suddenly split it from top to bottom, a few jumped back. A midnight blue leg emerged, then a wing and finally the hatchling shook himself free. The humming grew more intense, dragons craning forward as he made his choice. Not Serebrin, who stepped to one side when it became clear the blue wasn’t interested in him.

Detgar carried on scanning the rest of the eggs. Most were moving now; a good sign. With something to concentrate his mind, he felt less sick. A crack appeared near the top of another egg. Several boys rushed toward it, a few of them hovering indecisively as another, on the opposite side also showed signs of breaking open. The crown of the first egg shattered and a dark brown head appeared. The young dragon seemed to be taking his time, looking this way and that, unconcerned that the rest of his body was still enclosed within the shell.

Meanwhile, the other egg was moving increasingly violently, attracting more attention from the candidates, Serebrin included. Detgar’s eyes flicked from one to the other egg, unsure which was the right choice. He found himself drawn to the brown dragon, who was still making no effort to break free. ‘What are you waiting for, you silly dragon?’ he muttered. Then an awful thought struck him. What if that dragon couldn’t find his person? Was he about to witness a tragedy? He edged closer, willing the brown to make his mind up. To do something. Could dragons think too much, as he was always being told he did?

Over to his left, another two eggs had split, drawing the crowd away. A pale green hatchling rolled out, knocking over two boys. As she struggled to get to her feet, she inadvertently trod on one of them, her sharp talons drawing blood from his thigh. She ignored his cries as she went her way obliviously, not yet finding who she wanted.

Well, aren’t you going to even look at me, he thought, trying to project it towards the green. She didn’t send so much as a glance toward him.

_What is wrong with thinking too much?_

The voice sounded clearly inside his head. He spun round, unsure if he’d heard correctly, or who was speaking. _Who are you?_ he thought back. _Where are you?_

_Over here. And I am not a silly dragon. It is comfortable in my shell._

He looked back towards the dark brown dragon, still ensconced in the remains of his egg. _You must be hungry._ All hatchlings were hungry; the reason why they needed to hatch was because they had used up all the nutrients inside the egg.

_I suppose I am._ With that, he gave a shake and a kick, spreading his wings as he finally freed himself. He really was a gorgeous colour, Detgar thought, like freshly brewed klah. He found himself walking towards the dragon, unaware of his feet burning on the sand. A fierce feeling of love and protectiveness enfolded him. _Are you sure it’s me you want?_

_Of course._

He gazed into the swirling eyes of his dragon. _Herebeth._ The name echoed inside his head. He spoke it aloud for the benefit of the spectators.

_Come on then, Herebeth. Let’s get you your first meal._

_That sounds like a good idea. I really am quite hungry now._

They made their slow way towards the entrance. As he walked another voice he knew well rang out across the Hatching Ground.

‘Her name is Zemianth.’


End file.
